Thursday, 24 January 2013

complices (d. frédéric mermoud, w. mermoud & pascal arnold)

The subject of child abuse and sex rings has been prevalent
in the European media over recent months. (Even though this film predates this). Without in any way denying the
requirement of society to defend its most innocent and vulnerable citizens, it’s
also apparent that the media fascination goes with acertain prurience. There’s a voyeuristic element to the
furore. The pseudo-Foucaultian sex-power matrix generating a neo-pornographic
response. No doubt that shrewd reader of the sexual politic, Foucault himself,
would have offered an incisive commentary on the contrasting Macalpine and
Saville cases.

Mermoud’s film bellyflops into this arena. It tells the
story of the murder of Vincent, a 19 year old prostitute who pretends to be
underage in order to fulfil the fantasies of his wealthy clients. His life
becomes confused when he acquires a girlfriend, Rebecca, with whom he falls in
love. Her reaction when he comes clean about his real job (having earlier made
the unlikely claim to be working for an estate agents) sets off a chain of events which will end in tragedy.

We know it will end in tragedy because the film opens with Vincent’s body being
fished out of the river. The other half of the film follows the investigation
of the police into his murder. The mixed-sex police team, Hervé and Karine,
enjoy a mildly flirtatious, world-weary relationship which looks like it should
go somewhere but never does.

All of the above is all well and good, and the first half
hour of the film, with its use of flashback and a brisk editing style, rolls
along effectively enough. We assume a narrative connection will evolve between
the stories of the police and the young couple. We assume that at a certain
point the narrative will take an unexpected turn. We also assume that the
scenes of Vincent and Rebecca having sex with unpleasant, seedy men, are there
for a reason which is more than merely mundane narrative-filler. The adopted
premise implies an examination of the true meaning of corruption, the worm in
the apple, the other side of the capitalist tapestry. The film’s insinuating
title suggests there must be something more to it than the equivalent of a
glossy TV drama episode.

But there isn’t. There’s nothing there. It comes as no
surprise to learn that the director has worked mostly in TV. What does come as
a surprise is that a script as banal and cynical as this has been feted and
given a global release. One suspects the reason is that it is cashing in on a
global prurience which would make Michel smile. Complices is the twenty first
century equivalent of the Victorian flash of ankle on an expensively printed
dirty postcard.